


the elegy of achilles

by aeoleus



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Anyway I made myself cry reading this so u better read it and suffer with me, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, I pray tell, M/M, Post War, What the fuck? - Freeform, as much as integrals would so, but i said fuck it john laurens is complex enough to frustrate me, i was supposed to be doing calculus, john is dead and I have feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-10-05 23:45:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10320305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeoleus/pseuds/aeoleus
Summary: In some sick, depraved way, Alexander isn't surprised at all.John was always determined to martyr himself. Because John would always look at him from his hospital bed, grimacing under maybe one black eye, or a new scar forming through his eyebrow, and he would say to Alexander, "Spartans weren't afraid to die. Why should I be?"





	

Alexander, he reads. He reads a lot. He reads anything and everything. Poetry and science, economics and military history. He reads of valiant deaths and the untimely downfalls of the greatest warriors. He reads of Achilles going mad with grief after the death of Patroclus, and refusing to bury him; he reads of Alexander the Great building wondrous temples in memoriam of his lover. Somehow, those vivid descriptions never cut as deep as the letter in front of him.

Alexander's sitting at his little desk that's pushed against the only window in the room, and he can see people running through the rain, horses' hooves clobbering against the cobblestone.

_"On Tuesday the 27th, my son was killed in a gunfight against British forces."_

John, with his bright eyes and ready smile, freckles painted upon his nose and cheeks. John, with his unruly curls that were always escaping their hold, his sharp tongue.

The war is over. Yorktown was the end. Washington knew it, Howe knew it, King George certainly knew it. John, apparently, did not. Alexander can imagine him, eyes ablaze, charging headfirst into a battle that would be better left unfought, never imagining the consequences- or, if he did, not caring.

_"As you know, my son dreamed of liberating slaves and creating the first all-black regiment."_

John was nothing if not fearless. Alexander sometimes wondered if it was not some force more insidious than patriotism compelling John to run into firefights without a second glance to ensure that his gun was actually loaded. Countless times, Alexander sat at John's bedside, wondering how long it would be before shoulder wounds, bayonet grazes turned into John's name being scratched off a list of officers and an apologetic but not un-expected letter being sent to his family. John would look at him from under maybe one black eye, or a new scar forming through his eyebrow, and he would say to Alexander, Spartans weren't afraid to die. Why should I be?

Alexander can remember reading a little passage somewhere about Spartans.

They were at Valley Forge, and Alexander was running a fever high enough for Washington to confine him to the tiny room he shared with John. John had walked in, shaking snow off his uniform, stared at Alexander, cold hands shaking too badly to even turn to the page of his book, and immediately stripped the blankets from his bed and covered Alexander with them. Too tired to speak, John then pulled his boots off, covered himself with his jacket and went to sleep facing Alexander. His nose was bright red, and Alexander could see the sharp cut of his jaw. He looked down at the page, tracing the inked letters under his fingertips. He'd been reading about Spartan society, truly meaning to study their finances. But the tiny sentence slipped into his notes, about how Spartans, fearless warriors, were sometimes lovers, too.

In some sick, depraved way, Alexander isn't surprised at all. John was always determined to martyr himself. Does this make him Achilles? Or perhaps Patroclus, attempting to reach through the darkness and time and space separating him from John and grasp his hand. " _I would know him in death_ ," Patroclus spoke softly through Homer. " _I would know him at the end of the world_."

The door to his study creaks open and Alexander nearly jumps out of his chair. It's just Eliza, biting her lip and standing in the doorway.

"Alexander?" She says hesitantly.

Alexander can't respond. His voice is caught in his throat. The rain dripping onto the window panes seem far more pressing than his wife's concern.

"Alexander, are you alright?" She comes in, and she kneels in front of him and takes his hands. Alexander notices for the first time that the carefully inked words on the letter are being blurred into blacks splotches, tears falling freely to the paper.

"I-"

_"That dream of freedom dies with my son."_

Achilles murdered the man who killed his Patroclus and dragged his wretched body behind a chariot. Alexander the Great built great shrines in his beloved's honor. Alexander will do the same. He will fight for freedom with words vicious enough to have leapt off of John's tongue. He will build palaces of paragraphs for him, never dedicating them, but knowing their intention. 

"I have so much work to do." 

* * *

 

_And perhaps it is the greater grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone._


End file.
